


Drabbles Of A Drunken Mind

by RichieBrook



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alcohol, Gen, Jim being Jim, M/M, Restraints
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-20
Updated: 2015-04-01
Packaged: 2018-03-13 20:55:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,384
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3396020
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RichieBrook/pseuds/RichieBrook
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Things I came up with in a state of uncomfortable intoxication. They’re things I’ve been wanting to write down for ages, although not in this particular form.  Also, Jim needs Sebastian and vice versa.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. One must imagine Sisyphus happy

He doesn’t remember. He has no recollection of the past few (three, four?) hours, except for that one moment. His arms still hurt. Up until Sebastian had violently pinned him down onto the bed – long, strong fingers digging into thin, pale arms – , he’d been trying to reach for he-doesn’t-even-know what. The sky, Jupiter, Mars, _God_. Higher and higher. Mightier and fucking mightier. He’d definitely been getting there. He’d been about to be crowned, to be baptised; to be made king of the world, master of the entire goddamn universe. His eyes fixed on colours so vibrant, his ears trained to pick up even the faintest and subtlest of sounds. Everything had become clear. He’d known and seen all, in a shocking matter of seconds. The world had laid itself out in front of him within the blink of an eye. He’d been able to see through every plot; through every capitalist and Tory defect and every left-winged and communist inability in recognising the disgustingly humane being in every – single – one of earth’s inhabitants. They were all scum, just like he was, and he’d been their captain; emperor of all that was lost. _One must imagine Sisyphus happy._ Jim’s teeth and thin, chapped lips grinned their wolfish grin as he stared at the ceiling unseeingly. Life’s struggle was enough to fill everyone’s empty heart. Like hamsters in a goddamn wheel, they all were. Oh, everything had been white-hot and brilliant, sparkling and shining like the tears in his eyes do, now that he's restrained and effectively held down by a pair of cold, heavy cuffs. Sebastian remembered. _If I ever get that look in my eyes again, step in. Confiscate whatever bottle or whatever drug I’m carrying; it’ll be water that I need._  
The sniper looms over him in the least intimidating of manners, his pale blue eyes worried and wild. Jim gestures towards himself with a jerk of his head, his pupils dilated, and Sebastian is on him in a matter of seconds, strong arms wrapping around Jim’s waist, holding him in place. A rough, warm voice, like ground black coffee on a cold winter morning. “You’re an idiot. Wipe that crazy smile off your stupid face. You’re a goddamn idiot, and I’m never letting you drink again. Breathe, will you? Jesus fuck, Moriarty, just breathe.” And Jim breathes, but only because the walls he put up in his vivid imagination have caved. Because he’s no king now, and because he’s not alone anymore. He melts in Sebastian’s arms, his eyes slipping closed, and although he knows it will worry his sniper, he slips into a heavy, alcohol induced sleep. They’ll talk in the morning.


	2. Die Religion unserer Zeit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More pretentious writing. Chapter title's part of a quote by German author Heinrich Heine, whose work I don't even enjoy that much, because my understanding of politics is practically non-existent. Needless to say, I don't know anything about Marx and Hegel either.

There's an empty wine bottle on the floor. There might be a second one as well, or a third one for all you know, but you're in bed and you can't see. That's just how it is. Does it matter, anyway? You've no place to go. It's late. You don't _know_ how much you had to drink. You're staring at the ceiling and the ceiling stares right back at you, spotlessly clean and perfectly intimidating. You don't remember the glass or the bottle, the liquid or the buzz. You don't remember much, which was to be expected. Drunk was tonight's goal and freedom was its theme. A theme you didn't master, if you don't mind me telling you. You're a zero, that's what you are. You're mender of puppets and God in a world most would not care to be in. You're Hades, except you're winning. You're a winning zero and that must count for something, if not _everything_. 

Why desperately cling to morals when morals don't matter even to the ones who control the country? Why cling to morals when reprehension of a party - any party - is what motivates a country's politicians and populist newspapers? You'll have none of that, and you'll drink. You'll drink to freedom; to unlawful practices and boundless creativity. You'll drink to life and you'll toast to immorality, for it's what makes life worth living.

And when the buzz wears off and your head feels too empty and too full at the same time - like it might explode, you know - you wrap blankets tightly around yourself and shield your eyes from whatever shard of sunlight that might slip past heavy drapes.

You don't invite your sniper to lie down with you, but he might slip under the covers at some time past midnight, and he might yell at you after stepping into shards of thick, green glass, or he might cling to you and moan about his past. His irrelevant, insignificant past; a past like yours or anyone else's in every aspect. You're like everyone in every single aspect, but corrupt capitalism serves you and Hegel, Marx and the rest of them can all off themselves for all you care. Could all off themselves, if they weren't long gone already. You're in charge of the underworld and the underworld controls them all. You're angry and it serves you right. You're angry, your sniper radiates warmth when he holds you and money's forever flowing like water. Just keep them dancing. You'll be alright.


	3. Apparently, you have developed a soul

God, he’s drunk. It’s the only explanation there should be; it’s the only explanation there is. He’s drunk, drunk, _drunk_ , although he hasn’t touched any sort of stimulant or narcotic in days, weeks, months. He hasn’t had any reason to. Tonight though, tonight he feels like he’s downed a bottle, without pause. Pearls of ruby red have stained his lips and trickled down his trembling chin. Yes. Yes, good. That’s how it must’ve gone; that’s how he must’ve looked. He is intoxicated. It just isn’t the good kind tonight. That happens sometimes, and _Sebastian. Sebastian, Jesus Christ, turn on the lights. I drank too much. I’m a mess._ The king-sized bed will swallow him whole if it feels so inclined, so he wraps thin fingers around the sturdy bars of the headboard, holding on as if his life depends on it. And maybe it does. Who knows what will happen when he lets go. Perhaps it isn’t the bed he’s most afraid of, but he can’t allow himself to think along those lines. 

“You haven’t touched a drink in months. You’re not drunk, ” that familiar voice snaps, and it doesn’t usually snap at him like that, but now it does and _it’s okay it’s okay it’s okay_. His head’s not even spinning. He’s drunk and he’s numb. He doesn’t feel, he rarely feels. Except that this particular spark in his chest (there’s one in the back of his head as well, but that probably counts as ratio) is one he connects to the familiar euphoric highs and lows he’d almost come to forget about. Well. He’s lost that battle, then. Tough. _I don’t want them; maybe give me a good punch or two and I’ll snap the fuck out of it, let me snap the fuck out of it._

But no. No, that can’t be it. He must be drunk. He is drunk. Drunk on _hey, Sebastian. Se-bas-ti-an, I’m absolutely feckin’ crazy, aren’t I. Admit it, Tiger._ Tiger, Tiger, Tiger. Not many people can say they’ve their own personal tiger, to attend to their every whim. 

Sebastian reaches out, or Jim thinks he does, because next thing he knows, a big, warm hand is gently cupping his cheek and it’d be an absolute new low if he’d be making _that_ up. It’s a possibility, though. It always is. 

“You’re thinking too much.” Gentle, gentle. Jim smiles. “I need you to relax, Jim, alright?” Sebastian pries thin fingers from the bars and wraps smaller hands into his own.  
_How much did I have to drink?_ , Jim pushes, and Sebastian shakes his head. “You’re just stressed,” he insists, the voice of reason itself. Jim can’t stand voices, let alone those of reason. He screams. A high-pierced, unnatural sound that comes right from the depths of whatever it is that he’s battling. He squeezes his tiger’s hands. Tighter, tighter. Sebastian’s face is unclear and Jim can barely make out his features. Just those piercing, blue eyes, making him look like the angel Jim feels like. And Jim sighs. Closes his eyes. Shakes his head. Gives in. _Lock the door. Come to bed. I’m not alright._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! :)
> 
> Quotes I used for the chapter titles:  
> 1\. _The Myth of Sisyphus_ by Albert Camus  
>  2\. _Reisebilder_ by Heinrich Heine  
>  3\. _We_ by Yevgeny Zamyatin


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